


Windows to a Less than Godless World

by Wizardchester91



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Original Character(s), Pagan Gods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-19 18:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizardchester91/pseuds/Wizardchester91
Summary: There were many gods, and beings, that were not mentioned. That did not fight for Wednesday, or Mr. World. Old gods, and new. These are their stories.





	1. Katya Ameibousa

The Tall, raven haired, sun kissed, greek woman smiled at the crowd gathered around the podium. A flameless torch flickered on either side of her, and her two black dogs, fierce looking and intimidating, panted silently off to one side. Katya never went anywhere without her hounds. 

She had carved out a living here in Los Angeles, running her occult shop, reading fortunes and casting spells, and writing her books-  _A Historie of Magickale Applikationes, Bind your Buisiness!- magical applications for life and finance in a rapid world,_ and other such titles. 

A pockmarked teenager with feathers woven into her hair, dressed top to bottom in black and silver- in fact, they all wore black, grey, silver, and purple- was grinning excitedly. "Ohmigod, you are like, SUCH, and inspiration!" Another teen Witch gasped, and Katya smiled broadly, resisted sniffing in disgust. This was what counted as worship- simpering wannabes idolizing her, bowing before her, consuming her words as truth and law. At least they feared her fortunes. Still she was a novelty, reciving scraps like a dog. 

She had it better than some though. 

She nodded in 3 faces to the crowd, for to each of them she would appear different, very old or very young, or matronly, and the only thing anyone could agree on is she was extremely greek, and very mysterious. And vaguely intimidating. 

Katya began her speech on death magic and Cthonic spells, her eyes seeming to glow slightly as she did, her crowd of Goth Teenager Accolytes enraptured. Wednesday could keep his war. 


	2. Sly Nodd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: drug references, drug use, addiction, addiction behavior. 
> 
> A note- my reason for making the god of heroin a black man were NOT racially driven. They were historically driven.

From the streets of Brooklyn, to doctors offices everywhere, Sly Nodd had a system. He was fast, addictive, and oh, so,  _beautifully_ , deadly.

He was responsible for more death, more destruction, than any other modern god. Mankind feared him, despised him, sought to eradicate him, but secretly? They loved him. They neeeded him. And he had worshippers, and accolytes, everywhere. 

Sly Nodd was the god of Opium. Heroin. Fentanyl. Benzodiazepines. That sick twisted powder that set your nerves into a dull hum, that made everything in the universe creep past you as your body bent and twisted in the famous Nod Out.

He was black, light caramel skin with amber eyes that had long ago grown filmy and vague. His skin, where it wasn't caked with grime or bleeding ulcers or bulging veins, glittered hypnotically. Heroin was dirty. It was ugly. But it was also deceptively beautiful. His clothes, what had once been beautiful Indian garments, were soiled and torn, bloodstained. Black Ooze dripped from the heels of his sneakers. 

To the humans he was another Junkie, in a tattered coat, shuffling down an alley to puke or piss or shoot up. No one saw him unless they WANTED to see him. 

Two junkies lay there, their belongings scattered around a makeshift fort, filthy mattress, old needles in a bin beside them. They kissed each other, sadness and defeat in their eyes as they tied each other off. 

Sly Nodd inhaled...a sacrifice. Sorrowful, miserable, reproachful, but a sacrifice nonetheless. He bent down into the one Junkies ear, whispered to them. "Use me. Take my blessing. Offer yourself to me. Give me everything." 

The Junkie retched back a sob, preparing the syringes. "I can't stop. I'm so sick. Oh fuck I'm so sick." He confessed to the god beside him. 

The other Junkie stared up at him, eyes glazed, half mad and half stoned, a childlike smile on their face. They were a true worshipper, willing, always willing. "I give myself to you. I give you my body, and my money, and my health. Let me breathe you. Let me fuck you. You are my everything." The needles slid into their arms, miraculously finding a vein, and both junkies wept, one in agony, one in extacy. 


	3. Major Leo.

She pushed through the double doors of the V.A. hospital in Memphis, Tennessee. Major Leo was a muscular, lithe, fierce looking woman, with golden brown skin, and fiery amber eyes. Her wild, umber locks were neatly pinned back in what was known in military Jargon as a "High and Tight". Around her neck was a necklace, with a blazing red sun pedant.

She had come to this country a few years ago, in the mind of a refugee woman from Kuwait, during the Desert Storm War, carried by thoughts of bloodshed and anger, and prayers for healing and venegance. "sekhmet..." The frightened woman had prayed. هیچ رحمتی ندارد ما را با پنجه های شدید تکان داد اجازه دهید خون دشمنان من تبدیل به باران شفا، Sekmet."

She nodded to the nurses station, looking at the schedule board. She was just about to grab Private Monroe's chart when a flurry of activity spurred beside her.

"35 year old Caucasian male, low pulse, bp 80 over 20 and dropping, multiple gunshots to the chest. Home Invasion."

The smell of blood was irresistible. Sekhmet turned, as 4 nurses pushed a gurney into the nearest OR. The man, still wearing his fatigues and a civilian shirt, was absolutely drenched in blood. Hot, sticky, steaming, blood. The goddess had to resist licking her lips.

"Get him into OR 2." She barked, lunging for the clothing shears.  _Let me see you, Warrior...._

The man had already slipped out of consciousness. Sekhmet studied the wounds, ordering medications, everything moving FAST. The way she liked it. The gourney was rushed away, and she changed into a smock, scrubbed in, and made her way into the theatre. 

An hour later, and 2 bullets removed, Major Leo swore. "Third bullet tore through his liver , it's lodged between his  vertebrae. We've got a bleed. I need a clamp!" 

"BP Dropping!" The nurse called. 

"Pulse-ox destabilizing." 

Sekhmet snarled. Her warrior was going to die. There was nothing she could do. She had missed the bleed- it a perfect storm and she couldn't heal him without attracting a Lot of attention. 

Sure enough, despite her best efforts, 3 hours later the man was on his way to the morgue. 

Sekhmet pushed the gourney solemnly, still splashed with blood. When she was discretely out of sight, she lapped eagerly at the blood on her hands, and chewed the small piece of liver she had taken when it was obvious the man would not make it . 

She gave a slight smile, when Jaquel was waiting for her. 

"Hello, Cousin." He greeted, sliding the body into the bag. "I don't Suppose you are ready to come home? Horus...is still not himself." 

Sekhmet shook her head. "Anubis. My place is here. Carrying the warriors to you." Her face was set, hard. "Tell Ibis to make his story a good one." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The writing, which is in persian, translates roughly to "Have no mercy. Sheild us with your sharp claws. Let the blood of my enemies come down in a healing rain, Sekhmet."


	4. Prada Jadore

She was at the top of every P.R. list, Swag Bag list, and Invite list. Everyone in New York and Los Angeles knew her name. Everyone who was anyone. 

 Her and Media had become fast friends. Even Technical Boy respected her. 

The humans knew her as Prada Jadore. The Gods knew her as Fashion. 

She strutted into the studio, clicking her tongue at her assistant. "That satin is much too dark. Have the wholesaler send samples of the rest of that range. And the summer line- where is it? Why do I not have samples in front of me?' She snapped. 

The assistant stammered, earning a glare from over the top of cat eye sunglasses that probably cost more than her rent, and a pursed lip lined with red lipstick. 

"Well? Get the fucking samples." She snapped impatiently, shouldering off her chinchilla coat, her Luis Vuitton heels clicking on the black  onyx and labradorite floor. She made her way to a table with her assistant hurridly laying out articles, and began picking through them. 

Prada was the IMAGE of fashion. 5'11, 130lbs. Willowy and angular, with a choppy pixi cut dyed in the latest haircolor trend (currently, oilslick) makeup always perfect, and always matching her outfit- soft and subtle, bold and daring, her look fluctuating with whatever was currently most in style. She never wore the same thing twice, and hardly ate.

The door buzzed, and Prada looked up. Her security camera flickered, and a perfectly mascara'd eye blinked at her. With a grin she buzzed Media in. 

"DARRRLING. Oh you look positively fantastic! Vintage Chic, always in fashion, 50's are really making a comeback this year, and that derby hat- bold move but you pull it off!" 

 


End file.
